


Surefire

by Julibean19



Series: The Fall That Kills You [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abuse of Greek Mythology, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Character Death, Claudia Stilinski's Backstory, Execution, Hurt/Comfort, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mates, Murder, Revenge, Temporary Character Death, Time Travel, Torture, Werewolf Pain-Relief Magic, Wing Kink, Wingfic, Young Peter Hale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:41:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25629127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Julibean19/pseuds/Julibean19
Summary: Sequel to Falling In, Not Through.He thinks about the last time he saw his mate, blood bubbling up through his slack lips, hands clenching Stiles’ shoulder and cupping the back of his head.  He thinks about how Peter’s eyes widened in shock even though he knew the blow was coming—how his eyes faded from Alpha red to clear blue in his last moments.Stiles thinks about how Peter died human, felled with an immortal weapon wielded by a myth.With an almighty screech that rattles the windows and calls out to the ancient ones, Stiles’ fingers curl around the feather as he brings his split-knuckled fist down on the sigil.  Breaking skin one last time, Stiles feels his wrist bones shatter as a blinding white light envelops him.
Relationships: Claudia Stilinski/Sheriff Stilinski, Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: The Fall That Kills You [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1857808
Comments: 60
Kudos: 159
Collections: Steter Week 2020, The Steter Network





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mysenia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mysenia/gifts).



> Thanks to Malapropian for organizing Steter week and inspiring me to get back into writing! (I really needed this kick in the pants.) Another thank you to the entire Steter Network for being my home away from home! <3
> 
> Special Thanks to Green and Triangulum for their support and encouragement!
> 
> Gifting this to Mysenia who inspired the first piece of what is now perhaps the start of a duology. Thank you! <3
> 
> This is possibly my first ever true WIP. I don't have much more written and I have 0 idea where it's going to end up. So come along for the ride with me if you dare.
> 
> Note 10/13/2020: I changed the title of this. I wasn't feeling the old one and didn't think I could fit the plot point that made it relevant into the fic anymore, so I changed it in hopes of being inspired to continue. (TLDR this used to be called Tabris Fallen but I changed the name. Only the title has been changed.)

Stiles’ legs give out and he hits the floor hard. 

His shoulder makes firm contact with wood. The crack is audible, even to his human ears and Stiles can barely suppress a scream as a fresh rush of pain overcomes him. It makes the constant agony of his own decay dull into background noise for a few moments. The break, sharp and bright, feels almost like relief until his brain catches up to his wings and he’s shivering in febrile, all-encompassing agony again, unable to catch his breath. Jaw set tight enough to crack, Stiles swallows down fire, exhaling slowly until his vision stops blurring.

Sliding in a days-old, sticky pool of blood, Stiles pushes himself to his knees with his left hand. He’s unstable, broken wings teetering ominously as he tightens his core and finds his balance. Cradling his right arm into his chest, Stiles takes a moment to steel himself against the pain before making his next move.

With a deep, gut-wrenching groan, he throws out his good hand, scrambling for the small, flesh-bound book on the floor, sliding on his knees when he can’t quite reach. Thumbing frantically through the pages, Stiles struggles to find the right passage, the one he’s been staring at for days but doesn’t quite have memorized. He blinks several times to clear the sweat and blood from his eyes, but it still burns to read in the dim light. 

This is a horrible idea. A supremely, colossally stupid idea, but Stiles’ survival instinct is screaming at him to do something—anything—to make the pain stop. Stronger still is the throbbing, aching hole in his chest where his mate was ripped away. It’s a gaping maw that’s been eating him alive, inch by inch, sinew and bone, since Peter left him.

Stiles tried to grieve for all of three days before he was spurred into action by unrelenting fury. It was no longer an issue of right or wrong, justified or retributive, but life or death—his life or death. 

Stiles could let himself die like he was supposed to, brutally, in a heap of blood and broken feathers, without Peter, or he could go through with what anyone in their right mind would tell him is an idiotic and possibly universe-imploding plan. Be it by luck or cruel fate, there’s no one left to stop him.

Book held down with one knee, Stiles sees no other option than to start copying sigils on a clean patch of floor. He dips his left pointer and ring finger into the syrupy pool of blood when they go dry, frantically writing the symbols before he passes out again. Biting his swollen bottom lip and wracking his memory, Stiles adds a few more runes for luck, protection, and safe travel. In for a penny, in for a pound, Stiles figures they can’t hurt. If he dies, hopefully it’ll be quicker than this—the agonizing, slow march toward a death that he’s not sure will ever come. 

Prometheus, Sisyphus, Oknos, Ixion—Stiles isn’t looking to join their ranks. 

_Not today, Hades_ , Stiles thinks to himself as he plucks a blood-soaked secondary off the floor to use as his focus for the ritual. Holding it by the calamus, Stiles brings the feather to eye level and twirls it in his fingers. He’s done this so many times over the years that it’s become an unconscious action—just another fidget toy for Peter to find strewn around the house, covered in chew marks. 

_“You do know you’re basically cannibalizing yourself when you do this,” Peter had said fondly, clearing up a pile of lost feathers and tossing them in the trash._

_“It’s not cannibalism. It’s fingernail biting, at worst,” Stiles would reply._

_“So just self-mutilation, then. Classy.”_

_“You’ve never had an issue with my oral fixation before. Quit complaining or I’ll go find a younger, prettier werewolf mate.”_

_“Good luck. There aren’t any… I’ve checked.”_

_“Fuck you, Peter,” Stiles said, grinning._

_“Ask nicely, sweetheart,” Peter said, his standard reply to the sentiment. “You know the rules.”_

Stiles chokes down a sob at the memory. He can fix this. He’s going to fix this. 

Inhaling deeply through his nose, Stiles coughs on the fetid scent of his own rotting flesh. He tries again, centering himself, ignoring the pain that radiates through his entire body. Instead, he opens his eyes wide, fighting against the burn, and stares at his feather, how the blood filters through the barbs and each barbule in turn, filling each minuscule channel with life.

He thinks about the last time he saw his mate, blood bubbling up through his slack lips, hands clenching Stiles’ shoulder and cupping the back of his head. He thinks about how Peter’s eyes widened in shock even though he knew the blow was coming—how his eyes faded from Alpha red to clear blue in his last moments. 

Stiles thinks about how Peter died human, felled with an immortal weapon wielded by a myth. 

With an almighty screech that rattles the windows and calls out to the ancient ones, Stiles’ fingers curl around the feather as he brings his split-knuckled fist down on the sigil. Breaking skin one last time, Stiles feels his wrist bones shatter as a blinding white light envelops him. 

Then he’s gone.


	2. Chapter 2

Screams echo through Stiles’ ears as the universe shifts beneath his feet and above his head, throwing his stomach into a tailspin. After a moment it becomes clear that he’s not dead. Surely death wouldn’t feel like his already battered body was just squeezed through a hamster tube and then emerged as a puddle of broken limbs and viscera on the ground. It takes another full minute before Stiles’ guts revolt and he vomits all over himself. 

Panting through his open mouth in a desperate bid to regain his equilibrium, Stiles’ ears ring. He opens his jaw wide and tries to pop them, but there’s too much pressure. Swallowing down acrid bile, Stiles keeps his eyes shut to this new reality. Instead, he focuses on what he hears and evening out his breathing. The screams echoing in his head morph into confused shouts and he struggles to make out the words.

“Fuck, Peter. What is that fucking thing?” a quavering, female voice asks. 

There’s a beat of silence in which his mate formulates a convincing lie.

“Halloween costume,” he says, dumbfounded.

Finally, Stiles’ head stops spinning and he can open his eyes to the worst magical hangover of his life. He surveys the scene before him, blinking slowly. Nothing makes any sense except the way his chest lurches—heart stuttering and lungs clenching as his eyes find the source of the familiar voice and lock on. 

“I think you should go,” Peter says to his half-naked companion. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Nope,” Stiles says, eyes roving over every inch of his young mate’s face, searching for anything and everything recognizable. There’s so much to see—so much to relearn and learn for the very first time. Stiles drinks it in like a miracle antidote, clinging to it like a mirage that might flicker out of sight at any moment. 

“I—I’ll call you next week,” Peter amends, not pulling his eyes away from Stiles for one second.

“Still, no.” Stiles exhales, all the strength leaving him as he closes his eyes again, collapsing in a broken heap on Peter’s dorm room chic rug.

Cloth flies over Stiles’ head as Peter throws the girl her clothes. 

“Sorry, Kelly,” Peter’s voice says, moving toward the door. “I—we had a lot to drink last night and I just realized… I’m actually gay. Sorry!” he says quickly, pleading with her to leave.

“There’s the one,” Stiles slurs, cracked lips moving against the rough fibers as his mate shoos his hopefully-a-one-night-stand out of his apartment.

“Whatever, freak,” the girl mutters, finally on the other side of the door.

Stiles waits for Peter to return to his side and ask, “Who are you?” before letting himself pass out.

* * *

Peter’s cocky tone wakes him.

“I thought about chaining you up, but it didn’t look like it was worth it. You can barely move as it is.”

Stiles answers with a groan.

“Who are you and why do you smell like… that?” 

“What do I smell like?” Stiles manages, swallowing down the revolting taste in his scorched throat.

“Death and blood and vomit and… I don’t even want to know what else.”

Stiles hums in agreement. He doesn’t feel good by any stretch, but existing in a world with a living Peter is enough to slow his body’s unrelenting death march to a dirge. It’s remarkable how he can withstand the broken bones and decaying wings, the shattered wrist and lost feathers, as long as that gaping, raw emptiness in his chest is starting to fill back in.

“Last time you said rotting flesh.”

“Last time?” 

“The first time,” Stiles amends, rubbing the crusted blood from his eyes with the pinky of his good hand—the one that had been his bad hand only a few hours ago… years ago? Stiles is too tired to unpack the intricacies of time travel right now. “But I guess this is the first time now, isn’t it? If you help me get cleaned up, I’ll explain everything.”

“I’m not helping you with anything until you tell me how you got here,” Peter says, folding pale, lithe arms across his narrow chest. 

_ Christ, he’s a fucking teenager.  _ How far had Stiles gone back? Peter looks like jailbait.

“My name is Mieczysław,” Stiles says, breaking that train of thought before it goes off the rails. “I traveled through time.” Stiles gives him a blood-stained smile. He watches, amused, as Peter tilts his head to the side, ears searching for a lie and not finding one. 

“You traveled here… through time,” Peter repeats, eyes narrowing. “How far through time?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles again answers honestly. “I didn’t exactly have a Delorean. What year is it? Do you even get that reference?”

“Yes, I get that reference,” Peter says, rolling his eyes. “It’s 1999. When are you from?”

“2030,” Stiles answers readily.

“And in 2030…” Peter begins slowly, “we know each other?”

Stiles huffs out a broken sound that has him wincing. “Biblically,” he grinds out. “Don’t make me laugh. I think half my ribs are broken, too.”

Peter’s eyebrows disappear into his shiny, non-receded hairline. “I see,” he says mildly. 

“Now will you help me up?” Stiles pleads, shaking. He can’t even hold out a hand for help. He’s going to need Peter to physically drag him up from the floor, wings and all.

“Two more questions,” Peter says, mind spinning like clockwork as he puts all the pieces together.

“Shoot.”

“How old are you now?”

“36.”

Peter’s eyes widen as he does the mental math. “And we...” he says, pointing his finger between their bodies several times over. 

“Every night and twice on Sundays. What else?”

“The wings…” Peter says, tilting his head to the side yet again. “Angel? Demon?”

“Fury.”

“Ah,” Peter says, a small smile growing on his face as he nods in understanding. “Of course. My next guess. Up we get.” 

He laughs as he stoops to the ground to heft Stiles’ broken body over one bony shoulder. 

Stiles cries at the sound, light and clear, coming from Peter’s throat. It’s different, to be sure, not as gravely as he’s used to, but it awakens something deep within him, slowly healing the cavernous hollow in his chest. Stiles never thought he’d hear that sound again, and now he’s here, and the world has yet to implode. 

He did it. There’s nothing to stop him from getting a do-over—from living his life over again with Peter. Nothing except—

Sniffling, Stiles clears his throat. “1999, you said?”

“Yes. Want to see a newspaper?” Peter grunts under Stiles’ weight, ducking and angling his limp wings through the bathroom doorway. 

“No,” Stiles says, his mind already rushing back to Beacon Hills where he’s just realized his mother is still alive. “I want you to set my bones and bandage me up first.”

Peter drops Stiles gracelessly into his bathtub and peers at him, hands on his hips. “Your arms I can do. But I don’t know how to deal with… all this,” he settles on, gesturing to Stiles’ wings with his hand.

“I’ll teach you,” Stiles says, lips twitching upward. “Like you taught me.”


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles blinks, desperate to keep awake as Peter fumbles through cleaning his feathers. His wrist and arm are set and bandaged, but his left wing’s metacarpals could use some work once Peter musters the nerve to tackle them.

“My fingers are going numb,” Peter gripes behind him where he’s sitting on the closed lid of the toilet. “I can’t do this anymore.”

“I don’t even want to hear it,” Stiles grumbles. “I’m literally dying over here and you’re complaining about a little knuckle soreness? Normally you do this while taking my pain, you selfish fucking dipshit.”

“You know about that?” 

“Are you in the habit of fucking people who don’t know you’re a werewolf?”

“Kind of, yeah,” Peter replies, easily. “What about you?” 

“No comment,” Stiles says, unwilling to reveal that he’s only ever slept with the man currently straightening his feathers—the man who that man will become—the man that will now never exist? Stiles can’t keep it straight. “Are your eyes still yellow?” he shoots back.

“No comment.”

“I see,” Stiles says, echoing Peter’s earlier response. “Still don’t want to tell me? It’s good to know some things never change.”

“I never told you? How long have we been together?  _ Were?  _ How long  _ were _ we together?”

“Not long enough.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“No. It’s not,” Stiles says, clipped, effectively ending the line of questioning.

“How did this happen?” Peter tries instead. His fingers are thinner, less calloused than Stiles is used to, but the touch is still achingly familiar. 

“We’re not going there yet.” 

“What _are_ you going to tell me, then? You came back here for a reason. You’re going to have to tell me what it is eventually.”

“I was dying,” is all Stiles can think to say. He knows he can’t lie. “I needed help.”

“Help you needed to come back in time for? There wasn’t anyone to set your bones in 2030?”

“Nope,” Stiles replies, popping the P.

“When did I die?” Peter asks immediately, body going tense behind Stiles. His fingers stop preening, instead, they thoughtlessly pinch one of Stiles’ secondary coverts as Peter waits for an answer.

Silence stretches between them while Stiles thinks of what to say. He’s breaking every time travel rule known to mankind and science fiction, but as long as he has no intention of going back, it doesn’t actually matter, does it? There’s nothing left for him in 2030—nothing he can’t get in 1999. His younger self will just have to find a different mate. 

This Peter is his. 

He takes a deep breath, glances at the now anachronistic watch on his good wrist and counts. “Nineteen days, 12 hours, and 37 minutes ago.”

Peter exhales slowly until his lungs are completely empty. “Wow, okay. I’m dead.”

“Not now you aren’t,” Stiles points out, simple and clear.

“You came back for me.” 

There’s wonder in Peter’s voice—but no perceptible suspicion. 

“I came back for you,” Stiles replies. It’s painfully obvious that this Peter isn’t used to being loved properly. Not if he’s shocked by Stiles’ perfectly honest admission. “You’re worth coming back for, Peter.”

A wet laugh escapes the man behind him. Stiles turns his head to look but he can’t see Peter through his wings. They are in no condition to be folded away yet.

“If you really knew me, you wouldn’t say that.”

“I know you better than you think.”

Instead of answering, Peter resumes preening Stiles’ feathers, dipping his fingers in the ice water and massaging the blood out of Stiles’ coverts. The silence stretches out for long minutes until Stiles feels a tingling sense of relief. 

“Thank you,” he sighs, already woozy from the temporary reprieve. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Peter growls, claws emerging with a snick. “How are you still conscious?”

“Fury,” Stiles slurs. “I’m used to it.”

“Are you immortal?”

“Not that I know‘f,” Stiles says. “But no one’s really safe from eternal punishment… so it seems.”

“Right,” Peter sighs again, settling into Stiles’ pain. “You were dying when you got here. Are you still dying?”

“Hope not.”

“Sleep, Mieczysław.”

“Can’t. Need you to set my wing.”

“Jesus, okay. Hold on to something,” Peter instructs him and then wrenches the tip of Stiles’ wing back into place.

With one more agonized shout and an errant thought of remorse for Peter’s neighbors, Stiles slips into unconsciousness.


	4. Chapter 4

Shuddering awake, Stiles does his best to shake off the nightmare—the same one he’s been having every time his body gives out on him and forces him into a restless sleep. He opens his eyes, frantically searching the room for Peter only to find the young man sitting in an armchair across from the bed, back straight, legs crossed, hands clasped like a king. Peter surveys him carefully with his lips pursed and head tilted to one side.

“Your heartbeat is like a ferret.” 

“And your voice is like a chipmunk,” Stiles groans, reluctantly lifting his head from Peter’s pillow. It’s imbued with Peter’s scent, new, but still recognizable. Clearly the man had devoted himself to a brand of deodorant early in life. “How long have I been out?”

“A day and a half,” Peter replies, shrugging, like it isn’t much of his concern. “I’ve been here… just working on my dissertation.”

“Ah. Celestial Wanderings, Divination, and the Traumatic Experiences of the Restless Dead in the Era of the First World War,” Stiles quotes. “You should finish it. Comes in handy during a haunting… around 2022.”

Peter’s eyes widen as he considers this. “When did we meet exactly?”

“You really want to know?” Stiles asks, rolling his neck from side to side, wincing as his deltoids scream in protest. He’s been dressed in a pair of boxers but the fabric does little to warm him. It will still be some time before he can put a shirt on and the fever has yet to abate. A chill runs between his wings and into his sweat-soaked hairline.

Stiles only just turned the clock back but already it feels like he’s running out of time.

“I want to know everything,” Peter says.

“Why?” Stiles replies. “It’s not like any of it matters anymore.”

“If it happened to you and me, it matters. I don’t want to make the same mistakes twice.”

Stiles’ lips curve upward into a considering smile. “You’re really asking for it, aren’t you?”

“Asking for what?”

“Trouble. It’s always trouble with you.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Peter says, prim and proper, switching the cross of his legs.

“I think you know exactly what I mean,” Stiles says, shaking his head fondly. “People say I’m the reckless one, but I’ve never met a more shamelessly curious person in all my life. That thirst for knowledge is a double-edged sword, you know.” 

There’s a quiet moment where Stiles surveys Peter. His eyes trail from the top of his brunet head downward to his bare, bony feet. Not for the first time, Stiles wonders what Peter looked like right before the fire, surely it wasn’t like this. 

“2010. We meet in 2010.”

Peter goes quiet again. It’s amusing to Stiles, how little this Peter speaks—how carefully he chooses his words. The bravado isn’t present yet. Stiles always assumed it came with being an Alpha the first time, or from his resentment toward Derek and Laura for leaving him in Beacon Hills alone, but perhaps now he’ll never know. Perhaps now, Peter will always be this—the young, quiet man who may never lose his family or his sanity. 

Stiles is alarmed as it dawns on him anew. His Peter is dead. This is a completely different man who will never be what he knew or loved. He may be similar—there may be a hint of him there, an aura around the edges—but the man he loved will never exist in his entirety. 

How much would Peter’s face age in one year or five? How long would it take until he resembles the man Stiles knew and loved? Would that make Stiles feel better, or would it be worse, to see a different person wear his mate’s face?

“Do we—”

“—For fuck’s sake,” Stiles gripes, sick of the way they’re dancing around the issue. “Yes. Okay? Yes. We started dating when I was 18. I was barely legal. Are you happy now?”

“I’m not unhappy,” Peter says mildly, eyeing Stiles’ body indelicately. “You’re kind of hot.”

“I was hotter a few weeks ago, I assure you,” Stiles answers. “I can barely move my arms right now, let alone prove it to you. But in a few days I might be back to normal. Or at least 2030 normal… if I play my cards right.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What do you know about pack bonding? And I mean _real_ pack bonding,” Stiles amends, “not just—oh, I woke up from a coma and went insane and killed a young woman and now I have this beta I bit accidentally, on purpose—pack bonding. Real, intentional pack bonding.”

“Who did that? Me?” Peter asks, outstretched fingertips touching his chest in mock offense.

“Of course, you,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes as it’s the only move he can make without wanting to vomit from pain. “Or past you, at least. Future you. Whatever, I don’t even care anymore.” 

“Let’s go with Future Peter.”

“That’s better than what I’ve been calling him in my head.”

“And what’s that?”

“My Peter?”

“And whose Peter do you think I am?” Peter asks, leaning forward in interest.

“I’m not sure,” Stiles says, a cruel smile gracing his lips. “I don’t think you’re Kelly’s favorite person right now. What about Talia? Or Derek?”

“Talia also isn’t my biggest fan right now,” Peter admits, biting his inner cheek. 

“What did you do this time?”

“The same thing I always do—disappointed her.”

“Ah, of course. And Derek?” 

“He’s eleven. And not even a cute eleven. He’s already an asshole,” Peter says, shaking his head, amused, “just like Laura.”

“So I guess you’re your own man at the moment,” Stiles says, raising his eyebrows. “Unless there are any more Kellys I should be worrying about.”

“No,” Peter says, eyes twinkling as he looks straight into Stiles’ soul. “No more Kellys.”

“Great, so it’s just the two of us, then,” Stiles says, using his good shoulder to push himself to a seated position. A pathetic sound escapes him, but at least he managed to fight back a scream.

“I guess so.”

They stare at one another for a long moment. Stiles breaks first, licking his lips unconsciously.

“Do you have a spare toothbrush? I’d feel much more human if I could brush the funk out of my mouth.”

“But you’re not really human at all, are you?” Peter asks conversationally, leaping up from his chair and leading a still-unbalanced Stiles back to the bathroom. 

“I was for the first 18 years of my life. So I have more of a claim to the term than you do,” Stiles says. He takes the offered toothbrush from Peter’s hand and motions for him to turn on the sink, only having one semi-functional arm to work with.

“I see,” Peter nods and tops the brush with a bit of toothpaste. “I have more questions.”

“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t,” Stiles says around a mouthful of foam. He stares into the mirror, grimacing at his teeth and the way his gum line has receded. That decay will take months to regenerate. Nerves are always the slowest. 

“Were we partners? They just passed domestic partnership in California. You’re not wearing a ring, but if we’ve been together for eighteen years… did we—did I not want to be partners? Is it still allowed? Do partners wear rings in the future? Publicly?” Peter asks in a rush. 

Stiles watches as the thoughts ping around Peter’s mind, excitement over the newly revealed information overwhelming his desire to remain cool and aloof. He rinses and spits, returning the new toothbrush to Peter’s holder—a plastic giveaway cup from some Stanford first-year event, not the posh handmade pottery that once graced their master bath—and clears his throat of phlegm.

“Really? That’s your first question? Not ‘how did I die’ or ‘am I rich in the future’ or anything like that?”

Peter crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the doorframe, lips pursed. “Just answer the fucking question, Mieczysław. If that even is your real name.”

“It is, actually,” Stiles huffs, back already aching from the weight of his wings. They’ve been out for weeks and he can barely keep himself upright even after a decent night’s sleep. “And I’m not answering anything else until you help me.”

“I already did everything I could for you. I’m not a doctor.”

“I don’t need a doctor,” Stiles gripes, reaching for Peter’s arm. “I need a werewolf.”

Shrugging him off, Peter turns and heads back to the bedroom, Stiles following slowly behind. “You’re a junkie. I should have guessed. What kind of sick relationship did you trap me in?”

Those words have no right to sting, but they burn through Stiles’ chest nonetheless. 

In some ways, he had trapped Future Peter. It’s something they came to terms with long ago, but the fact that it’s this Peter’s first thought even without proper context makes Stiles’ heart ache like it was just yesterday that they’d found his mother’s journal.

“I’m not an addict. Use your brain.” Stiles lashes out. “I’m a fury. I get injured a lot in my line of work and so do—did you? Only my wings heal quickly. The rest of me is just human. Except for these,” he admits, flicking his good wrist and letting his talons drop from his fingertips.

Peter’s eyes widen and he takes a step forward to inspect Stiles’ right hand. “Do you only have these two? Wolves have all five claws.” 

“I used to have them all,” Stiles says, wincing when he unthinkingly shrugs his shoulders. “Now it’s just these two and the middle one on my other hand.”

“What happened to the rest of them?”

“Fuck, you don’t even want to know.” It’s something Stiles wouldn’t mind forgetting if he could. Two of the worst days of his life that both ended in dangerous levels of blood loss and mutilation.

Shaking his head, Peter says, “I don’t think you understand yet. I want to know everything.” He runs his pointer finger down the side of Stiles’ talon, still cradled close to his chest in a makeshift sling. 

“Knowledge isn’t always power. Sometimes it’s a burden.” Pulling away from Peter’s touch as well as he can manage, Stiles all but collapses back onto the bed in a heap, retracting his talons as quickly as they appeared. 

“You know things that could help me,” Peter argues, blue eyes wide and questioning. 

He looks so young like this, searching Stiles’ face for all the answers of the universe. 

Stiles could ruin him. Stiles _will_ ruin him if he isn’t careful. Maybe he already has. By coming back here, Stiles has completely changed the course of this man’s life. 

On the other hand, Stiles could prevent the fire. He could prevent his mother’s death, his father’s death, everyone’s death if he tried hard enough. Stiles could engineer things and lay the groundwork for everyone he cares about to live long, happy lives if he planned things properly. 

Stiles could play God.

Where was the line and did he care? It’s not as if the Gods ever did Stiles any favors. Maybe it’s his turn to do a little meddling. If it meant Peter didn’t have to live a life of torment and unspeakable loss, he would do anything. If it meant his younger self didn’t have to lose his mother to slow-moving suicide… 

He can barely think through the pain. Stiles’ chest aches, his mind reeling with the possibilities spread out before him like crossed yarn waiting to be plucked. But who was he to do the plucking? He’s just as likely to get Peter killed as he is to save him. There are too many unknowns. Time is a puzzle that can’t be solved, otherwise someone smarter than him would have done it already.

“I shouldn’t have come here,” he says eventually, teeth worrying at his lower lip. “I’m just going to hurt you all over again. It’s a different story with the same ending. It has to be.” Stiles ruined his mate’s life once before in ways he can’t even begin to make up for. Yes, his mate decided to stay with him then—to be his partner in crime for the rest of his life—but Peter is younger this time. 

This Peter doesn’t know any better.

“It’s a little late for that, isn’t it?” Peter cuts through his circular thoughts, chuckling.

“I don’t know what to do,” Stiles admits. Tears cling to his lashes. He laughs, delirious with pain and self-doubt. Swallowing down the acid in his throat, Stiles’ teeth begin to chatter. He’s not far off from a febrile seizure.

“What’s so funny?”

“I’m surprised my body can even make tears right now. I’m severely dehydrated.”

They both laugh, Stiles sucking in breath through his teeth as his ribs protest the movement. 

Peter charitably lays a hand on his shoulder, chest still heaving, and takes just a bit of his pain until Stiles’ teeth go still and he can stop clenching his jaw. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, and it sounds sincere to Stiles, which makes him feel even worse. “It’s just a little overwhelming. A winged man falls into my living room, bloody and torn to pieces, and tells me he’s my boyfriend from the future and I believe him because if I can push past the stench of death that makes my eyes water, he smells a little bit like me.”

Stiles lifts his head at those words. He’s still nearly crying, but now the despair is tempered by the smallest twinge of hope. “I do? I still smell like you?” The idea grounds him, knowing that some little piece of his Peter is still alive in the present.

“It took me a while to notice, but yes. It’s in your clothes, deep in the fabric, under all the blood. And a little bit in your hair.”

“You got that close, huh?” Stiles smirks.

“Someone had to change your pants and throw out those rags you had on. You were going to ruin my sheets.”

“You took a peek, didn’t you?”

“Of course I did. I was curious,” Peter says, unrepentant.

Stiles probably shouldn’t be pleased, but he is. He may be nearing middle age and in the worst physical shape of his life, but he still managed to turn young Peter’s head. That’s something to be proud of. He finds himself wanting more of this feeling, so using his only advantage, Stiles draws him in.

“We were married,” he allows, meeting Peter’s eyes and holding his attention. Stiles can feel it. He knows what he’s doing is wrong but he can’t make himself stop. Against his better judgment, Stiles flirts. “Spousal privilege came in handy on occasion.”

“Legally? We were legally married?” 

“The U.S. legalizes same-sex marriage in 2015. There were a few bumps in the road, but it worked out eventually. Hopefully it still will,” Stiles muses. Depending on how many people he speaks to, life as he knew it may never come to be.

Peter’s eyebrows lift. 

“Are you surprised it took so long or surprised it happened at all?”

“I don’t know,” Peter says, considering. “Both?”

“That’s fair.”

“Do married people not wear rings in 2030?”

Stiles stares at Peter. There’s something in his eyes that Stiles never expected to see—hope. This Peter still has hope for a happy future with a loving partner. This Peter is still a romantic. Stiles hates to have to ruin it for him. Their love story is about to end before it even begins, literally. 

“Have you ever heard of finger avulsion?” he asks.

“No?”

“What about degloving?”

“Is that a sex thing? Because I’m not familiar but I’m always willing to learn.” Peter raises his eyebrows several times in a playful, yet sheepish way that does something to the pit in Stiles’ chest.

“Whatever you do, don’t Google it, you won’t eat for days.”

“What’s Google?” Peter asks.

Stiles stares at him for way too long, hoping that he’s joking, but slowly it becomes clear that Peter is 100% serious.

“Oh my God, no,” Stiles groans. “I want a refund. I’ve gone too far back. What are you using to search the Internet? Netscape? Just kill me now.”

“Usually Yahoo,” Peter offers, shrugging. 

“Fuck, this is going to take some getting used to. Do you at least have a cell phone? Is it the size of a brick?” Stiles really wants to rub his eyes and ease the tension in his temples but his hands are all but useless. 

“Yes,” Peter said slowly, squinting his eyes in confusion. “It’s a Nokia.”

“Of course it is.”

“Are you going to tell me what degloving is or do I actually have to look it up?”

“Do you even have the Internet here or do you have to go to the library or something?”

Peter straightens his back and puffs out his still undefined chest. “I have a new iBook. It has a built-in modem.”

“Oh Jesus fucking Christ,” Stiles mutters, squeezing his eyes closed in mental pain. “I can’t handle your hard-on for Steve Jobs right now.”

“I don’t have a hard-on for Steve Jobs!”

“You absolutely do and it’s horrifying to know it’s been going on for this long.”

“Can we get back to the point?”

“What were we even talking about?”

“Degloving?”

“Oh right,” Stiles says, attempting to roll some of the tension out of his shoulders, “it’s when you get your ring caught on something and then it rips your whole finger off.”

“Is that what happened to your talons?”

“The ones on my left hand, yes. The ones on my right were taken by a hunter.”

“I think maybe you should start from the beginning.”

“I think maybe you should turn your heat on and make me a blanket nest and some soup if you want more answers before I die.”

Peter’s eyes widen and then he’s on his feet in a flash, already pulling out a pot to heat some water on the two burner stovetop. “Ramen okay?” he asks. 

“As long as it’s not shrimp flavor,” Stiles mutters, knowing Peter will hear him. He flops down on the bed on his stomach and clutches Peter’s pillow to his face, inhaling deeply until he can catch the dry, woodsy scent again. It’s not much, but it’s just enough of his dead mate to settle the relentless itch that’s taken over his skin.

“It’s chicken. Is that good?”

“Just peachy,” Stiles groans. 

His Peter wouldn’t be caught dead serving ramen. The deep ache in Stiles’ chest intensifies as he listens to Peter putter around the economy kitchen. The domestic sounds should be familiar, but the setting is all wrong. This isn't his life. This isn't his Peter. 

He isn’t in Kansas anymore. 

He’ll never taste his Peter’s cooking again. The sharpness of the realization shocks him into tears that he can’t wipe away without aggravating his injuries. 

When Peter returns, he props Stiles up and spoon feeds him broth. It wounds his pride to have to rely on this young stranger for help, but every time their eyes meet, something in Stiles’ chest yearns to rattle free of its cage. There’s something here. It isn’t what Stiles has come to expect from his mate, but it’s still something. 

“Fuck, are you okay?” Peter asks when his breath catches and he inhales a noodle.

He coughs, ribs aching as soup dribbles down his chin. Peter wipes his face with a dishtowel, concern coloring his cheeks. 

“Fine,” Stiles rasps. “I was just remembering this stew my mother used to make when I was sick.” It’s a glimmer of hope. He might never get another one of Peter’s perfect panna cottas with brandied cherries, but his mother’s goulash was suddenly back within his reach.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m doing here. Werewolves don’t get sick.”

“It’s okay. I’m not sick, I’m just dying.”

“Great,” Peter sighs, rolling his eyes. “Just dying. That’s so much better. How do we get you to stop dying?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Stiles says, nearly choking on the honesty. It’s not clear that he’ll ever know. This trip through time may just be prolonging the inevitable. If this Peter isn’t really his mate, there may be no hope for him at all. “But I know someone who might be able to help. Do you have a car?”

“Yeah, why?”

“We need to go to Beacon Hills.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, you definitely don't want to Google finger avulsion or degloving. 
> 
> Also, I have no idea where this is going still, but I'm happy to have finished this chapter, so yay for progress!

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry if you were hoping for a continuation of a different fic. This one spoke to me first and loudest. Hope you enjoy it!


End file.
